Certain
by Polly Lynn
Summary: It rings out between them. Falls to the ground. Comes to rest with a hollow echo and feels true. Takes place during Always 4x23 , Castle POV, Related to "Red Wing," but not critical that you read both.


Title: Certain

Spoilers: Always (again with the clichés)

Raiting: T-ish

WC: 1600

A/N: I guess this is a companion piece to "Red Wing," though I don't think you need to have read that to get this. (But it would make my little heart go pitter pat if you _did_ read that as well.)

* * *

You are certain

This is written

In the hard right angles of your jaw

But I remember

Your hopeless fingers

Pressing white against the door

Against the letters of my name

Against the wall

* * *

He splits himself in two. Locks away the part that is collapsing. Stands ready to ignore the cries, the protests. The insistence that he make her _listen_. They don't come.

"This is, um, over," the other piece of him doesn't even object to the recycled dialogue. It seems that they're both done leaving things open ended. He tests the waters. Adds, "I'm done."

It rings out between them. Falls to the ground. Comes to rest with a hollow echo and feels true.

He goes.

* * *

The cheap gold polyester spills over his fingers, gaudy against the sober black pleats of the graduation gown. He idly catalogs the metaphor. Files it away with sense memories of the aftermath: The solidity of the door under his hand as he pulled it closed behind him, the creak of the descending elevator, the lonely, disjointed rhythm of one set of footsteps moving away in the heavy fog.

He gathers it all close—the details and clichés. He knows he'll have to write the ending eventually. Tells himself—the locked away part of himself that is still and silent and _exhausted_—that he'll _want_ to write it. Someday. When the pain is less and the cracks don't show any more.

He turns at her soft voice. Smiles because he ought to and then because he means it. Because she is lovely and open and _so young_, even in her anxious sorrow. Because her hair, fine red-gold silk against the black of his jacket, reminds him that there are other stories he will write. That he is writing. He tucks away the moment.

"Write about that," presses his lips against the crown of her head, "That feels true."

And it does.

* * *

He shakes himself and wonders how long he's been standing there. Looks down and sighs at the extra buttonhole between his fingers. He undoes the buttons and starts over a third time.

He concentrates on the fabric and tries to ignore the fact that the shirt is her favorite. That he'd pulled it from the back of the closet two days ago. Imagined the quirk of her eyebrow, her small smile of approval when he picked her up. Maybe even imagined her fingers, stark and pale against the deep red as he took her hand in the darkness of the movie theatre.

He shakes himself again. Sets his jaw and starts to work on the tie. Settles on something clumsy that will have to do. One cufflink skitters from between his fingers. he brings his palm down on it, harder than he meant to, to keep it from rolling off the dresser. Tells himself he's not shaking.

He pulls on the jacket and thinks of it as armor. Proof against memory and loss.

He catches a glimpse of the clock out of the corner of his eye. Turns and moves quickly through the study. He's missing time. Grateful that it passes without him.

The phone startles him. The locked away part of him pushes hard against his chest and wants to hope. He sets his teeth and flicks off the ringer.

His mother finds him there, staring at the darkened screen. She wordlessly eases the phone from his fingers and drops it in his pocket. Shakes her head gently and sets to work on the mess he's made of his tie.

She finishes and steps back to admire her handiwork. He stills her hand against his shoulder. They stand together a moment. Wordless.

* * *

He wonders how many different ways a heart can break. He watches as something new settles over his daughter. Her voice breaks. Drops. Rises again on a sweet note of possibility. Dives to catch the thrill of the unknown.

He listens. Saves the words for later, when has some place to hold them. For now, he hears her voice and knows: She is his. Better. Kinder. Wiser. But his.

She raises her wrist and flicks her fingers in the barest of waves.

The two parts of him rush toward one another and he sees her tiny pink fingers straining to curl around his thumb. An instinct to cling to him fully formed before her eyes were even open. Bigger now and a little dirty, rambling over the expanse of his palm as she acts out a story. A young woman's fingers, teasing and gentle over his shoulder. Coaxing. As if she ever needed to coax.

His face lights up and he slams his hands together. His mother's clear, "Brava!" rises above the crowd.

He smiles and smiles up at his daughter. So proud and utterly bereft.

* * *

She's worried. He hears it in her final "I love you," and he burns with shame. He wants to tell her that it's gone. The urge to call up a careless, adamant smile and run. Dig his toes in and push off the edge. Fall through the uncomplicated night and land wherever he might.

He wants to tell her he thinks _that's_ over for good and all, even if it's so recent he can still taste the sad, stale defeat. Wants to tell her that he's anchored now. And anyway there's no running from this ending.

He settles for saying it back, "I love you, too."

He sinks a promise into every word. To be here, even though she's going.

He sets down the phone. Settles her tassel into its place of honor.

The phone rings again and he sighs, not sure he can convince her all over again that he's fine. He's nothing like fine.

He turns the phone over and the world stops. He never dreamed she'd call. Not even the part of him that's locked away _ever _dreamed she'd take one step back toward him. Not really.

His thumb hovers over the button. Because he hurts. He _hurts _and he doesn't think he can make it through the next minute without something of her. Even her dying breath.

His fingers twitch at the thought, silencing the ringer. It's all too literal. All too _familiar_. Life rushing out of her. Rushing out of him.

Her face disappears. Reappears on the larger screen. He avoids it. Focuses on the words. Ruthlessly casts aside the idea that there is anything here to save. One gesture. Another. And the screen goes dark.

* * *

He thinks the knock comes right away, but he can't be sure. Missing time again, and he's worried it's Alexis. Hates the thought that he couldn't even give her one night of not having to be the grown up.

He tries on something like a smile and opens the door.

He is a complete blank, barely registering the most basic facts of the matter. The part of him that's locked away steps in. Takes notice.

That Kate is on his doorstep. That soaking wet or not, she's lit up like the city on a clear, cold night. That the uncertain almost-smile on her face reaches her eyes. That she's washed clean. A woman he's never seen before.

That none of it matters.

"Beckett. What do you want?"

Is there even a heartbeat before she replies?

He doesn't think so.

"You," the syllable is still on her lips when she catches him and there's something a little fierce. A little demanding. More than a little _annoyed_ in that first kiss.

He falls into the confusion of cool skin and warm breath. Her voice is hypnotic, "I'm so sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

She tips her chin up. Her lips find his again. A shock runs through him. Then stillness. And suddenly his mind is alive with words. The two pieces of him slam together. He kisses her back. Pushes her away. Steels himself and meets her eyes.

And nothing could have prepared him for that. For the fact of her certain, unwavering gaze. For the light—unclouded and sure—in her eyes.

"What happened?"

The light goes. Just for an instant. But it's enough and his heart stutters and cracks a little more.

And her words take his breath away, "He got away. I didn't care. I almost died. And all I could think about was you. I just want you."

He lights up white inside. It feels true. _It feels true_.

But he wants it so badly and he's _so_ afraid.

Desperation wins and he's crushing her against the door. Catching her weight while he learns all the places that bend her knees and soften spine. Lips and teeth together at her ear, one gasp after another that feels through his fingers on her ribs. His grief tells him it can't last.

He moves against her. Frantic.

She breathes a soft "_Ah" _against his neck. Drags her fingers slowly, _slowly_ across his shoulder, kneads the muscles of his neck and kisses him with purpose.

He follows. Sure and languid now. The heel of his hand presses against her collarbone. He feels her heart. Strong. Racing. Alive. He breaks the kiss. Bites back a prayer as his lips find the skin where the fabric parts. Rough, smooth, and warm under his breath.

She ducks her head and urges him upward. _Oh_. He's sorry. He didn't mean . . . He just. But she catches his eye and there's nothing that needs words. She nods permission and he tugs open the top button.

She looks at him. Waits a moment to be sure he's looking, too, and brings his fingers, together with her own, to rest over the scar. A nightmare. A miracle. He has to kiss her again. Savor the way every part of her meets every part of him and he wants more. All of it. Now.

He thinks she does, too. Knows she does when she breathes her wordless secrets against him.

_But isn't this . . . shouldn't they? It's probably a good idea . . . _

She laughs up at him and he is lost.

She takes his hand.

He follows.


End file.
